


Author's Notes Verse: Short Stories

by foolscapper



Series: The Author's Notes Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe, Bromance, Depression, Episode: s05e04 The End, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Mental Health Issues, Protective Dean Winchester, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-04-01 03:45:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4004599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolscapper/pseuds/foolscapper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Additional short entries to the Author's Notes Verse, some prequels, some sequels, some filling in the spaces. Be sure to read The first two in the 'verse before reading all of these, for the sake of clarity! Will involve a lot of heavy subject matter, so be prepared for that: including depression, suicidal thoughts and attempts, mental illness, and other things you'd associate with these.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s notes for the chapter: A small fic set after The Epilogue in a Very Long Biography. Castiel and Sam have a moment together.
> 
> Warnings: Suicide attempt.

Cas finds he doesn’t really blame Sam for much of anything these days.

He knew that, as the years passed, Dean had held some bitterness, some resentment. Blame. He isn’t sure what Dean feels  _now_ that Sam was back in their care (relieved, happier than he’s been a long time, perhaps re-evaluating his old burning resentments), but Cas? By the time they found Sam in that quiet little settlement years into the end (and beginning) of the world, Cas was contented to see a picture of him on Raelyn’s wall of memories. Not to let it get twisted, like he’s some symbol of peace and love — before the virus hit, and even for a little time after, he had been bitter, angry, directed his blame on Sam to an unfair degree. He had been angry that he gave up his place in the clouds for some kid to go and give away his consent to the vilest angel of all. He was just bitter in general.

It was a foolish thing to feel, if he’s honest. He had his role in this just as much as any other angel, regardless of his ‘Bible Camp’ return to Heaven (as Dean would call it). Castiel had long before ignored Sam’s prayers alongside the other angels. Castiel had turned a blind eye to Sam Winchester’s death in Cold Oak. Castiel had let Sam Winchester out of the panic room. Castiel had known, by letting him out, just what fate awaited both Sam and the world. Castiel the Stoic Angel Soldier had known all these things, but it’s only Cas the Drugged Out Lump who has never forgiven Sam, because he’s not so sure that there’s anything that needs to be forgiven. Nothing at all, if he’s honest. Not to him. Perhaps Dean may have deserved something from Sam that Cas was unaware of — he’s not sure what happened between them after the panic room — but Cas? No. No, no. Cas, baked and lounging in a bed with a lovely young woman for the night, considers that what happened to him was his own punishment. He had deserved to lose his wings more than Dean did his compassion, or Sam his sanity.

It just took him years to reach such a conclusion.

The first few nights back in their camp for Sam is undeniably difficult. Cas has no illusions that Sam would take their reappearance in his life well, especially after he’d thrown himself down in despair when they found him a few days ago, begging for mercy and death, as if that was what they were expecting out of him (and really, cynical as Cas is, he’s human enough now to feel the ache in that fact). Now Sam’s sleeping somewhat restfully in his own cabin, one he suspects Dean had kept ready for Sam, even if he was never sure if Sam was alive one day or the next; there are old but legible books lined up on shelves and more care put into the journals and writing utensils than Dean’s ever given to anyone else in their camp. Cas isn’t bitter about it; this is how Dean’s always been. Years ago he would have put a bullet between Lucifer’s eyes; now he’s carefully making sure Sam’s room is to his liking. The way Dean mourns for the loss of what his brother used to be is clear. Cas would do the same, now that he’s not as much angel as he is just another survivor. That’s why Cas takes great pleasure in finding books and stocking Sam’s room with them. He considers maybe he should just fill it up until Sam isn’t able to move left or right.

His thoughts are interrupted by Dean screaming — not simply yelling, but screaming, and there is a profound difference. Cas rushes from his walk to the source and feels a icy lump in the pit of his stomach when he finds himself standing in front of Sam’s cabin. Inside, Sam is sprawled on the floor, blood under his head and shoulders, and Dean’s got both hands clamped over his brother’s neck. Cas is able to put two and two together. Sometimes he wishes he couldn’t. Dean’s on the verge of hyperventilating, eyes stormy and afraid, as he yells at confused citizens, “Get me the first aid and the doctor over here!!”

They all obey, because it’s never good to ignore their leader.

Cas is at Sam’s side quickly, putting a hand on the man’s chest — his heart is still beating, but he’s pale. Judging from the volume of blood he’s already lost (soaking into Dean’s jeans, into Sam’s hair, into the floorboards), Sam _should_ already be dead; despite that, when Cas looks at Sam’s face, he’s surprised to find Sam’s eyes listlessly tracking him, face dotted with red spots and wet with salty trails. With Dean too terrified to take his hands off the jagged wound pulsing blood, Cas takes it upon himself to put his hand on Sam’s cheek, cupping it firmly. Sam’s teary eyes widen slightly, then soften, some sort of confused mixture of guilt and fondness present in the action that makes Cas smile. Very thinly. He’s not sure how Sam’s body works after Lucifer’s departure; simply that it does. He supposes the devil is to blame for that.

Since Dean is busy repeating Sam’s name over and over and telling him what a fucking moron he is, Cas decides his role is to just stroke the side of Sam’s hair quietly. Somebody’s got to counteract Dean’s desperation. Part of him wants to tell Sam that if it’s his time he should go, because he’s no doubt exhausted with this life, but that isn’t what Cas wants. Not at all.

Hours later, when Sam is tucked into bed with extra sheets, the room is thoroughly cleared out of anything else potentially dangerous (hunters are very creative). Dean is vigiliant at his brother’s bedside for a long while, stuck enough to his rickety chair that Castiel is nearly unable to get him to go take a piss and eat before he implodes. Admittedly, there’s a very human and very annoying feeling of pride that comes with the knowledge that Dean would leave his injured, sleeping brother with him, if even for ten minutes. Once he’s gone, Cas sits. His feet hurt. It’s annoying.

“You can stop pretending to sleep,” Cas says wryly. “I’m practically human, but I can sense whether you’re awake or not. It’s not that hard.”

Sam’s eyes pry open with some difficulty. He’s exhausted, but he’s not sleeping. Cas congratulates himself on his endless patience with Winchesters.

“Sorry,” Sam breathes. One of Cas’  _least_ favorite words. They weren’t common where he’s from, and it grates on him just a little. He shakes his head, one hand sitting beside Sam’s. Sam is considerably pale compared to him, small moles here and there across his skin. He reaches out and carefully pats his knuckles. “You’re apologizing for something that has no effect on me. I’m guessing that’s a common thing, these days.”

There’s probably another _‘sorry’_ to be had here. Sam juts his jaw a bit instead, eyes closed. Cas glances at the starkly white gauze there around his neck. The sutures must throb something fierce.

Sam says, voice nearly a whisper, it’s so thin, “I don’t understand. I thought you would have hated me. I ruined your family. You’re human now… You didn’t get the paradise you all wanted… Humanity isn’t the only thing I screwed over.”

“If this is an attempt to get on my good side, it’s not working,” Castiel jokes, though he thinks that maybe in his years of being on the ground, he still hasn’t perfected his  _'ha ha it’s a joke get it’_  tone. Or maybe Sam lost that skill trait, the ability to read jokes. He bows his head, considering his words. The ex-angel has had a very, very long time to think about these thoughts, and yet… he still needs time to think about the delivery. It’s a bit pathetic. Ultimately, he remembers how to-the-point he used to be, years ago. “Sam. You’re not the only one at fault. Have you forgotten that my siblings and I all aimed to have Lucifer freed? We wanted you to say yes, for a long time. Dean didn’t say yes, which was equally as damning. This isn’t some malicious crime that falls on the shoulders of one man. Or even two.”

Sam’s gray-rimmed gaze turns toward the wall. He’s always been so easily soft-spoken. “Chuck said it did. That it rested on my shoulders.”

“Chuck is a moron who hides toilet paper under his bed. I should know, I’ve stolen many rolls.”

Castiel is genuinely surprised to hear a rasping laugh punch its way from his friend.

“You’re so different now,” Sam replies, “Kind of the same, but mostly different.”

Cas shrugs. “People change. Time moves regardless of our intentions.”

“You smell like weed a lot, too,” Sam says.

This was the man who had sliced his own neck open earlier? Castiel quirks his eyebrow, smirking.

“That is because I smoke copious amounts of it.” A pause, and what feels like hesitation. He reaches out and puts a hand on Sam’s chest. It’s strange, but he sees now why Dean used to be so hands-on with everyone, before he turned into what he had been during the largest swell of Croats. Feeling Sam’s chest move under his palm was comforting. As a living creature, having another living creature beside you is wanted. But more importantly, Sam’s entire body seems to melt further into the bed, as if such a sensation is enough to calm the very soul that is tattered and trapped inside. “… You did not let Lucifer out on your own, either. I was the one who had unlocked the panic room door, so that you may escape to open the Cage.”

The chest under his fanned fingertips tenses just slightly. A price to pay for the truth.

“… You shouldn’t have let me out.”

Cas nods. “I know.”

He knows it’s what Sam would want now, anyway. It’s complicated.

“I should have died in there. You should have let whatever happen to me happen.”

Cas doesn’t feel the need to argue that Bobby and Dean would have gone after Lilith anyway. Someone was going to beat Sam to it, only Castiel isn’t quite sure what would have happened. Either Lucifer would have been freed regardless, or Lilith would have obliterated the two hunters. Both options aren’t very pleasant to think about, especially when coupled with a detoxed Sam, dead and rotting on a filthy cot while he’s left behind by an oblivious family who would’ve probably been marching to their deaths. Even the angelic Castiel would have found it too terrible to think about for long. Then again, he always did have something wrong with the way he functioned as an angel. Sympathy was truly a pain in his ass. Truly.

Cas leans in.

“And just so you’re aware… The voicemail that you heard the night you killed Lilith, it was tampered by angels.“ Sam’s eyes widen, hazel pools looking back at him in complete awe. They look at each other for a long moment. "Your brother wanted you back. He said you were family. What you heard, it was… less-than-divine intervention, but it was all an illusion.”

He just wanted to let him know. Been waiting years for this. Sam chokes on a delusional sort of laugh, eyes full of tears.

Cas adds with considerable softness, “Don’t kill yourself, Sam. Your brother would probably be more trouble than he’s worth, if you did.”

He moves to lean back, but Sam’s hand reaches out to grip his tattered sleeve; he needs a new shirt.

“Thank you, Cas. Thank you so much.”

Actually, Sam’s sleeve is very tattered, too. He’ll need to make arrangements to go pilfer a mall. Do they have shirts his size? Well, Sam’s shrunk down quite a bit now, so he’d probably be fine until pants would be an issue…

Cas smiles, lets his hand sit on the bed again at Sam’s silent request.

Even if he finds it unnecessary, _'thank you’_ is better than _'I’m sorry’_ , anyway.


	2. A Minor Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: This takes place before all of the other entries chronologically, including The Epilogue to a Very Long Biography. Sam’s on his own and has been for a few years after dispelling Lucifer. Warnings for: suicidal ideation thoughts, self-deprecation, trauma, body horror (injury), and depression.

The sun beats down on the earth and bakes everything and everyone in its path without mercy. Sam can think of a few things that could relate to the sun, bright and strong and overwhelming, all of which make his mouth dry and a hot shiver slither up his spine. He’s not sure where he is now; it’s somewhere in California, he’d like to think, but it’s hard to tell where he is based on weather patterns anymore. All he knows is that it’s scorching, dust whipping in loose circles to catch in his untamed hair.

He runs into a group traveling from place to place, scavenging for what they can, wary and wear and ready to attack whatever attacked first. The Croats, while not as intensely overwhelming as they had been when — when, um… Lucifer was around, they were still an on-going problem. As it was, the tiny close-knit group had lost two people last week already to the virus. Sam wishes there was something he could do to bring them all back. But the power left inside of him after the archangel had been ripped out his body (released like ripped up pieces of a letter on the breeze) could do nothing against the stinking stain left in a person’s blood once the virus had found its way inside. It makes Sam feel a coil of disgust and self-hate when he thinks about it, when he thinks about how he’s free not to worry because of that original dribble of demon blood, that tar that had turned him into something less than human. He doesn’t fight that fact anymore. He knows what he is now, that Dean had been right. He was a freak. And he was a monster. And Dean wasn’t the only one who knew it, either; each day posed the risk of running into someone who knew, exactly, where his face had come from. What he’d done to society. Oftentimes, he was met with horror, though other times, pure unadulterated fury (for homes, for friends, for families, for livelihoods lost). More and more as people learned about him, realization at who he was meant Sam would have a few dozen buckshots to tweeze out of his flesh in the dead of night, by dim flashlight.

He’s lucky, today. He’s blessed. None of the eight or so people recognize the man who ruined everything. There will be no bullets to unwedge from his bones today. No waiting for his gurgling, slit throat to mend itself back together. He shouldn’t feel so relieved; he knows he has it coming to him. He just feels bad for them, that all of their efforts to smother his life out keep failing; it’s like one of those fake birthday cake candles, where you blow and blow and blow and it just flickers and laughs back in your face. He sits with these people, haunted and guilty but so eager for interaction after being trapped inside Lucifer’s shadow for what felt like a thousand years. He refuses their offer of food, though. He has to draw the line at their kindness somewhere. He makes up for wasting their time with him by going into the more dangerous sections of the small city, fetching anything he can that could be useful later. Sam finds he can see really well in the dark, and then at least he’ll see the Croats coming on top of being immune to their mindless violence.

They rest up for a night, when Sam decides to offer them the direction to a settlement a few miles away, and it seems to brighten their outlooks considerably when he describes the small, homely place. He had helped the settlement repair some old cars for emergency purposes, after they’d had found an old garage lined with big, red gasoline cans. As it turns out, the original owner of the place had wanted to be ready for the end of the world. Gasoline was a must to juice their car up fat and happy for the long haul (one they never got to, it sadly seems). Dean would have loved to have it for Baby, he thinks. Dean must still keep her cleaned up and put away. He has to, because that was their home. Dean’s home… Dean’s and Dad’s, if not Sam’s. He should ask if he can have one of them, maybe drop it off on the outskirts of Dean’s encampment if he can ever find it. He’d carry it around for as long as he had to, if it meant giving Dean a chance to give the Impala a spin on the road again. He reminds himself, chides really, that it’s not his to take. People need it to survive. He’s taken enough from people.

It’s not a huge population, he tells them, but the place is flourishing, which is better than roaming in dangerous territory. The small nomadic group easily agreed to follow.

Sitting by the fire, Sam takes first watch to look out for any signs of danger, while the others rest up for the trek ahead. The night is much cooler, drying sweat his neck and filling the usual void of rustic silence with crickets and the occasional owl call. Someone sleeping shifts and sighs in the calmness, the kind of noise you make when you dream of better things. It causes a small, hesitant smile to curl on his lips, until he notices with a start that someone in the back has crawled out from their sleeping bag to join him in the land of the conscious. The fire casts orange splotches over their skin as they wander closer to where he sits. It’s an older man, in his fourties, maybe fifties, like his father had been before he died. Sam saw him in the back of the group, meek and very tired looking, hair peppered black and white, burns on his arms and cheek. He’d been afraid to know what had happened to him. Either way, it’s likely Sam’s fault it happened.

Why is he disrespecting all these people by walking the same earth as them? He wants to tear his own throat out more and more, for every groove of puckered, shining skin he sees. He looks away.

“You’re Sam Winchester,” the man whispers in a rough voice. If ever a name to make his blood run cold, it’s his own. He whips his horrified gaze around to meet a surprisingly calm one. The man holds up his hands, one set of fingers bent unnaturally. “Please. Don’t be afraid. I won’t… I won’t tell anyone who you are. I’m Quinton. I, um. I don’t think you remember me, huh?”

Sam doesn’t, not at all, and that scares him, too. His heart is pounding away in his chest, the coldness in the night dissipated.

Quinton sits down next to him. He says quietly, “I was — possessed. By a demon. Took me around all over the place. He… answered to the thing in your body. Guess the monster riding around in me needed me to take orders from, from… Lucifer. I did things to people. Horrible things I can’t ever forget, not even ‘til I die, maybe.” He holds out his arms, as if inventorying each mauled inch of flesh. Now doesn’t seem like the time to speak, not with how the man seems to be bracing himself to tell him all this; Sam just forces his mouth shut, hands clasped on his knees hard enough to bruise. “I got burned like this out of someone’s personal vengeance for what the demon did; I can’t say it didn’t make me feel a little better… A hunter realized what was goin’ on, had it exorcised.” Kill me, he thinks. Kill me for this. He remembers now, the faintest memory of Quinton’s voice peeking through the veil of blackness, only his voice wasn’t soft like this. It was sharp and confident and dripped with chaotic energy. God.

“I’m so… sorry,” he manages, without choking. But a lump in his throat makes things complicated. He feels like he can’t even try to swallow. Feels like it’s impossible to move at all. When he speaks again, it’s with great difficulty, eyes burning, bowing his head. “I’m so sorry, Quinton. None of this should’ve… I’m sorry. I wish I could fix it. All of it, I’d do anything…”

The man’s hand is a warmth on his shoulder that takes Sam by surprise. It doesn’t even hurt. It occurs to Sam, to his dismay, that it’s comfort being offered to him. Quinton says, more firmly, “Don’t. It got you, too. Didn’t it? You didn’t want t'do the things you did, either. I could tell watching you, you felt the same way. It takes something out of you, when they’re finally gone from you. Makes life… harder. Makes looking at people in the face harder. But, um… I just. I just wanted to say — ” The man ducks his head, lip quivering. “I just wanted to say it’s okay. It’s good that you’re vertical, that you’re alive. I don’t… hold anything against you. You got more in common with me than anyone else can understand — I see that it broke you something awful, too. And I don’t blame you. For breaking. Or for doin’ the breaking.”

Sam can’t believe the words spoken. Quinton’s wrong; he doesn’t understand the full story, probably. Lucifer only got to him because Sam wasn’t strong enough to protect humanity. He was reckless and foolish to think he ever could hold his own, and now everyone’s suffering from one simple word he’d said, a word not even spoken with complete assuredness. This man couldn’t have had any chance to outrun a demon’s smoke, but Sam looked Lucifer’s rotting suit in the eye and knew what he was up against.

But this kindness — the sympathy and understanding — it smashes through Sam with a force that might as well have been him being flung from a car. He squeezes his eyes shut, curls himself into a tight ball, and gambles his sanity by putting his hand over the one still splayed on his shoulder. There is nothing, for many weeks after this, that will relieve him more than the hand not pulling away in rejection. “Thank you,” he barely croaks, forehead against his knees. “Thank you. I’m so sorry. Thank you.”

“I’ve learned to forgive myself, Sam,” the man says, “It’s a lot to hope for, but… I hope someday you can forgive yourself, too.”

Sam feels like such a thing is just a ridiculous fantasy. Quinton looks at him like it’s just out there, waiting for him.

The few weeks after that night, Sam stays with them at the small settlement, helping clear out damaged buildings full of dusty or broken things. He works day to day until his shirt is doused in sweat, skipping meal after meal, wandering night after night, ignoring the alluring call of sleep. As always, the people inside the camp grow unsure of him. Unsettled by his inhumanity. Sam simply makes sure he’s gone off into the night before his name starts floating on the wind. But he makes sure to keep Quinton’s name with him.


	3. Surviving a Blizzard at End Times, By Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Takes place a few months after The Epilogue in a Very Long Biography, after or during (sometime around??) Author’s Notes. Sam and Cas hang out in a blizzard, playing board games. Super simple. No big warnings. Castiel POV.

Winter is always an unfortunate season, even before the fall and resurgence of mankind following Lucifer’s demise. Just walking outside into that hazy white world is an exercise in stamina, or better yet, an exercise in futility —  _How long can I go before I run back inside?_  Not long for Castiel too, as much as he’d like to pretend being an angel gave him thicker skin for the frost and snow (it did… you know, while he  _was_ an angel). The temperatures are as bad for him as it is for any human lately, and he damns his natural body (not his, technically, he has to remind himself sometimes), and his chattering teeth, and the way his face burns in the winds whipping around outside. He would prefer to never leave his cabin, maybe hole up with some friends with benefits that are scattered about the camp (which is constantly changing, growing, altering itself to adapt to the world). He thinks maybe he should be alarmed that one of his great enjoyments is sliding into bed with someone else. He doesn’t particularly care.

Today as it has been for many days beforehand, he’s with Sam, and for the most part it’s been a very quiet week inside Sam’s little abode. The rough weather outside is just too much for most to handle, so everyone intelligent is burning their wood and drearily waiting for the springtime to come back around. For the kids it’s exceptionally bad. There are only so many drawings they can make with dirty broken crayons before their minds start to roam into daydreams, the heat of Summer. Admittedly, Cas enjoys watching the children thrive in the spring and enjoy what was supposed to be the  _end_ of everything. Winter puts a damper on these things.  
  
Dean is away on business. Mostly, that means the camp is low on supplies that are needed to push through to drier, warmer days. It’s a general rule between Cas, Dean, and Chuck that Sam is  _not_ to leave with him, no matter how miserable the taller brother looks before the other goes. And trust when it’s said that he looks particularly rejected and miserable. Dean thinks it’s too much of a risk, though, because too many people still remember Sam’s face out there. And Castiel hates to make Sam look like a scorned child in giant clothes, but he has to agree. It’s just too dangerous.  
  
It’s hard enough not knowing which new campers will remember a time where Sam’s body was not his own.  
  
So here they are. It’s already night time, and the oil lamps have been keeping them active, cast in an orange glow. They’ve ran through a few novels already in the quiet space, Sam eating up any kind of input so that he doesn’t dwell on the thought of his brother out there in the blizzard (and really, Dean may  _not_ be in the blizzard, but stuck somewhere fretting angrily about not being within ten feet of his emotionally scarred brother, while nature tries to turn them all into one giant snow cone; or perhaps one of those odd little globes one would shake to see the snow fall; Castiel has it on his mantle, for some reason; where was he? Ah, yes, quality time with Sam Winchester). He would suggest taking up painting or any sort of art, but Sam is extremely focused on their current game, saying with a thin-lipped expression: “I can’t draw worth a shit, Cas.”  
  
Cas drops a chipped red piece into the strange yellow board. “I can’t either, but when I’m in a certain mood, it’s nice to throw paint at people.”  
  
Connect Four is a sort of last resort. Other than Monopoly, and Sam seems adamant about not playing Monopoly.  
  
He’s still considering yoga, though. Marijuana has been a negotiation Cas cannot see ending anytime soon.  
  
“That’d be a waste of good painting supplies,” Sam points out. “We have some pretty good artists in the camp.”  
  
“If you’re referring to Dean, his only experience in art has been to scribble multiple dicks on my face.”  
  
Sam’s eyes twinkle, smiling very thinly, as if the muscles in his face are atrophied. “They were anatomically correct, right? He’s got a gift.”  
  
Castiel remembers that moment well enough: Dean Winchester, fearless leader, playing a joke, lightening the mood — a ghost of the old Dean, appearing like a miracle. All done likely to make Sam smile, he realizes. Because no matter how small the grin from Sam, he has slowly become their core, their root digging deep into the earth while the tree sways. For the people who matter here, Sam’s smile is bright in the wake of a grand storm. Sam, sitting here across from him, ducking his head and trying not to grin, Castiel thinks, is what hope feels like. He’s sure of it. He knows Dean, for all his seriousness, feels the same. Losing Sam now would be a blow that would be too hard to face. It’s something even Cas doesn’t want to think about for long.  
  
When Cas speaks again, it’s with more fondness.  
  
“I would say you qualify as one of his gifts as well, lately. Or perhaps a gift to me, since I don’t have to deal with his mopey, dramatic personality nearly as much anymore, thanks to you. Here,” Castiel says, gliding his finger along the game board. “Diagonally.”  
  
Sam’s smile brightens, though the emotion behind his eyes is bittersweet, watery and expressive. He looks like he wants to say something, something that’s too hard to get out, something important. The light around them is warm and safe.  
  
Sam just ends up saying, “Pretty sneaky, sis.”  
  
He falls asleep sitting up halfway through monopoly. 


	4. Shepherd's Herd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes: Takes place after The Author’s Notes. A group of kids in the camp take care of Sam.  
> Warnings: Nothing too big. The theme of loss, mostly, a little mental illness talk in there.

“Everyone’s at attention!” Tabs says, standing straight and sure of herself at nine years old. She’s got a ponytail on her head that has its work so cut out for it, it’ll undoubtedly snap after a week’s use, which is really an aggravation to her mother more than her — one would think that at the end (and new beginning) of humanity, rubber bands to keep unruly hair tamed would be less of a rare commodity. “This is a new meeting, so listen up! Shhh! Oh my god, be quiet!”

The other children, all busy squabbling around the small makeshift classroom, don’t seem to pay her any mind until she stands up on her chair and holds out her hands, as though their voices were a Red Sea for her to part. These dumb jerks just don’t know when to take note of a seriously serious situation. She’d punch ‘em all in the heads if the adults didn’t discourage it. Or maybe she wouldn’t. Still, it sure is a nice visual in her honest opinion.

“It’s a mission from Cas! It’s for Sam. He’s in trouble.“

That seems to do it. They all straighten up, voices silenced by the mention of the tallest in camp. Only about ten of them are there altogether, since the others are too young or too old to care about Tabs’ rants, and have since dispersed away for the day. There’s Blake, hair bleached nearly yellow from the summer sun, and there’s Stephany, who just aborbs the sun until she’s nearly copper, and of course there’s her smaller sister, Emma, the one who chews on her thumb and stands shortest of all, hiding from the sun in her sister’s shadow. Tabs clears her throat and sits down atop the desk while the getting’s good. Adults are boring. They don’t sit on their desks. Unless it’s Sam, because he lounges on furniture a lot when he’s not Gone to Bye-bye Land. It’s pretty cool that a person that ginormous sits on stuff and expects it not to break.

"Cas says Chuck says Dean says that Sam’s in a bad way. We gotta help out, m'kay? It’s our job! Dean even said so, that’s how you know it’s true.” Because nobody else around here knows how necessary a job is more than him, she thinks. He’s aware of how important it is to make things okay again. Not that Tabs has a bias or anything for making sure Sam isn’t suffering. Not that Tabs remembers how her grandmother passed away, with that glazed, faraway look in her eye. Not that Tabs has nightmares sometimes where her  nana never remembers who she is or what her face looks like.

Doesn’t matter. She’s not a baby anymore. She’s nine, and that’s almost ten, and ten is only three away from a teenager. Emma, now. Emma’s a baby. She’s five and she still wets the bed. But yanno, Tabs can’t blame her for that. There’s still a lot of reasons out there for peeing on your bed.

“Does he need more apples?” says Blake very, very, very softly.

“Or someone to make him take a pill,” Stephany nods, and then hunkers down next to Emma and reminds her, very sternly, that pills are never, ever candy and that only adults should take them unless they say you need one for bugs in your stomach. This will probably give Emma yet another reason to wanna pee the bed, Tabs thinks. Bugs? Come on, Stephany.

“Yeah,” she tells them all. “He got a flu. Makes him act all funny. We should help make sure he drinks lots of water and soup, 'cus he always gives Grouchface a hard time like this.” Grouchface is Dean. Dean’s always been Grouchface. Tabs is positive that nobody could outdo him, but then, she’d never bet anything on it. She likes too much of her stuff to even risk it. Bad luck’s a big ol’ stink that happens sometimes. There’s always bad luck, just in levels.

The plan’s pretty simple. It’s a herd wrangling a shepherd, basically. By the time they’re all skipping and jogging and catching bugs on their way over to the middle of the settlement, they already have their work cut out for them: Sam’s walking toward the fields, probably to do stupid stuff that other adults can do. Tabs thinks Sam’s sometimes a big idiot, but he’s a sad one, and she holds her tongue more for him. Dean’s probably close by as always, but it goes without question that he probably thinks Sam’s sleeping off his illness.

Dean can be pretty dumb, too.

Sam lets out a dazed “huh?” and blinks when they all swarm around him like little bees. Emma takes his hand in one of hers — or, well, more like grabs two of his fingers with her whole palm, because he’s got a Beanstalk Giant’s hand — and Stephany is right beside her like a diligent mother hawk. An older boy named Clinton puts a hand on Sam’s back, lithe and lanky like Sam in his youth, and the other kids start rattling off things from school, more excited to chat with Sam than the so-called mission. Most of 'em are small, mostly unaware that Sam isn’t completely right. Tabs knows he isn’t. It’s okay that he isn’t.

One asks, “Sam, you okay?”

“Did you know lava turns to black rocks,” someone says to Sam’s left. He hums, not all there enough to really reply. Tabs scratches at her scalp, the weather humid and overwhelming in the open, and her rubber band snaps right off her hair. Sam flinches, then pulls the rubber band off of his own shaggy ponytail and helps pull it all back again for her. He seems more present now that he has.

And so it goes, a feverish, confused Sam is coralled by a bunch of elementary school children back into his room, while a displeased Dean Winchester heaves a breath. Sam sits down on his bed with a weary grunt, obviously too tired to tie his own shoes let alone work today. Tabs can see the fever in his face. It’s all splotchy and he’s sweaty and gross. Sam is sort of sweaty a lot of the time anyways, but she can tell the difference. She shoos most of the flock out now, because let’s face it, kids are annoying sometimes and she’s totally not a kid like them. The only exception is Emma and Stephany, who hold their post as Dean shakes out some medicine into his hand. His attempt to offer them to his brother obviously fails.

Obviously.

Tabs takes the pills confidently, not at all familiar with the look of envy Dean has when Sam easily lets her hand him a glass and the medication. She’s not sure why. It’s not a big deal, giving someone their medicine. “Hey,” she says, and pretends she’s talking to her nana. “You gotta take these to make you feel better. Please? For me? You can’t get worser.”

Sam looks at her with a furrowed brow and sad, sad eyes. She wishes he wouldn’t. She likes when he’s happy. And sharp. And says smarty-mouth stuff that makes her push his arm. Sam’s her friend. Tabs wants all her friends to be happy. Anybody who thinks otherwise needs to get punched in the head; she’ll do it herself, or at least daydream about it.

Stephany carefully brings him the tray with soup on it.

“I made it myself!” she beams. Stephany is a compulsive liar. She also says that if you shake your head too much it’ll spin on your shoulders and never stop. Sam smiles at last, taking the spoon while Emma sits down on the bed next to him.

“Does it hurt?” Emma asks, blinking under black bangs. Thumb’s in her mouth again, but the other hand pats Sam on the chest. “Here? It hurt?”

“A little,” Sam rasps, coming back into reality fully. Tabs and Dean exchange smiles. Sam continues, “Today it doesn’t hurt that bad. I’m alright, Emma, thank you. But you — you shouldn’t touch me right now; I don’t feel good. I don’t want you to not feel good, too.”

Tabs glances at Dean, seeing the overthinking brain behind the folded arms and stern expression. Looks like he’s sad. Normally, that’s Sam’s job. You’ve got Grouchface and Sadface. Cas is just Sleepyface, most of the time. They’ve all got their own special faces.

Emma and Stephany are told to leave (and Sam has his wits about him enough to tell them to wash their hands a few times, just in case, because she’s pretty sure he can’t handle hurting people). The two sisters live with their aunt on the other side of the camp; she and Sam work a lot on the gardens together, and Cas stops by long enough to help lead them back. Soon it’s just Tabs, sitting with Dean until Sam lulls back into a more peaceful sleep. She’s not sure why she’s afraid for him; he’s not old, even if he’s brittle in comparison to other adults. She’s not sure what scares her, but it simply does, the same way the thought of drowning or going blind does.

“You can go, Tabitha. It’s alright,” Dean says with a rough voice.

“… No,” she says quietly. “Sam’s my friend. I wanna make sure he’s sleeping okay.”

Dean knows more about her than she does, maybe. Because he says, in a softer way (or as soft as someone like Dean can say anymore), “He’ll be okay. Your grandma was a lot older than him. It’s not his time to go, not for a long, long time.”

She shrugs.

“… And I bet your gram’s in a better place. She was a good lady.”

“Sam’s good, too,” she points out. She’s not sure why she’s compelled to, but she is. Good people seem to never last as long as they should. Thoughts like that make her not feel as young as she should be. She scrubs one foot with the other until her mother stops by; Cas is a tattler. It’s his fault for talking about Sam being sick while she’s close by.

“He’ll be up and at 'em for you tomorrow, Tabs,” Dean promises.

Sam snores softly in his sleep, blissfully for at least a little while.


	5. What's Your Name?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel comes back to camp carrying a person on his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: starvation, illness, death, mental illness. A very quick addition to the verse.

Castiel comes back to camp carrying a person on his back.  
  
Sam’s working out in the garden when it happens, his palms blistered and forty-first birthday swift on the horizon; the apple tree is filling in, a little red world in the middle of green, green, green. Alive. The opposite of what the carried woman looks like, Sam thinks later on. He almost doesn’t notice when his friend crosses past their fences, lost in the hazes he finds himself in sometimes. But then — he’s just there, panting and requesting help, and Sam isn’t even sure how to do that. He’s never been a healer, and despite what others say, he’s too worried his hands will break whatever living thing they’re touching. Why wouldn’t he think as much? Look what Lucifer’s done, with his hands and feet. Stomping through people, sapping life out of them, and all with his face. No, he’s not a healer. He’s no good with handling delicate creatures.

  
He’s good with _tomatoes_ , but.

“Sam,” Castiel manages, shifting the weight on his back; the woman’s body sags over, but remains steady enough. “Are you all here, right now?”  
Sam knows what that means. He nods, suddenly realizing that he’s a Winchester, and Winchesters are bound to the life of handling corpses. If he’s allowed to hold a baby, he’s required to handle bodies as equivalent exchange. He reaches out and, despite how thin he’s gotten, easily plucks her from Castiel’s back like someone taking another’s coat. Holding her like she’s a tired babe, he looks down into a gaunt face; she’s young, a teenager maybe just out of puberty, blonde hair matted and in her face… Light as a feather, warm as a furnace; he can see the bones in her limp hands curled against her stomach. Sick. She’s very sick, not a corpse, not dead but alive. The thoughts strike him like slaps across his face as he adjusts a shaking grip to hold her as comfortably as he can against his dirt-speckled. All the while, Castiel catches his breath and puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder.  
  
“She’s sick,” Sam says, panic edging in the way he stands, but Castiel just squeezes his broad but bony shoulder to ease him down.  
  
“Can you carry her for me, Sam?” Castiel asks, and Sam swallows hard. He doesn’t have time to freak out. He remembers how they used to save people, a long time ago. Before Lucifer. He remembers carrying a lot of people just like this. Kids. Sam remembers pulling children from water and out of holes and from the clutches of monsters, which are undoubtedly still out there somewhere, wondering where their food supplies have gone. She reminds him of that. She looks like something sucked the life out of her. He nods, nods and starts pacing away, leaving Cas to follow as his mind picks up. Doctor. Medical. She needs to be looked after. She’s so thin. Too thin. Even he isn’t that thin, and it’s like walking with skeletons in your hands instead of hoarding them in your closets.  
  
The skeleton moans (it’s not a skeleton). Sam blinks hard, looking down into her dazed face.  
  
“It’s okay,” Sam speaks softly. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I got you. You’re going to be okay.”  
  
“… Mom…” she mumbles, and he wishes he could give her something for it. He doesn’t know her mother. He knows what it’s like to whisper her name and recieve nothing in return, though. He tucks the crown of her head under his chin and hushes her softly, listening to the rhythm of his and Castiel’s shoes as they move through the thick and unkempt grass. They’ve got her settled into a bed before long, and Dean’s clomping his way through in those intimdating boots of his to see what the hell is going on; inside the medical tent, Sam gains his wits all at once, putting a hand over Dean’s heart and stopping him short. The girl’s been in and out of consciousness, and while Sam knows his brother has a ever-growing heart, he also knows his brother still scowls too much and has long-since forgotten his bedside manner.  
  
His voice is steady, eyes soft with concern. “She’s sick. Cas carried her in, but she’s all skin and bones. We’re letting Bedham check on her and see what he can do.”  
  
Dean’s posture goes from alpha male to sheepish animal under Sam’s stern gaze, and he pats his brother’s hand. “… Right. I got it, Sammy. Cas brought her in?”  
  
He explains in full, though there’s not much to it; Castiel had just been out on the edges of the camp (Dean grumbles a lot about how he shouldn’t be doing that shit), and he’d come across her, barely conscious and ill. Sam had left seeds strewn in the dirt and his watering pail can’t handle much more rust, but he decides to hand the reins over to the others in camp. Just this once. He plops down next to the sick girl and tries to remember what is the most comforting thing to do here; he’s been where she is, only he wasn’t able to die. He’d just lay there with Dean and Cas by his side, sometimes Risa or Chuck. He remembers wanting to die back then sometimes, wishing someone could crush his head under something heavy and finally take him out. Did she want that, too? Was she too frail and in pain to ask for it, to do it herself? He’d tried, he remembers. He’d tried, and… It was awful. He doesn’t want to think about it. Dean’s sewn up his throat before.  
  
Swallowing convulsively, he reaches out and smooths back her hair. He liked when the others did this for him, before the depression lessened.  
  
But maybe she’ll hate him for it. It’s okay. He can risk it, apologize later. At the very least, apologize for how calloused his hands are. They probably are too rough. He didn’t think of that.  
  
“Shouldn’t be in here,” Dr. Bedham tells him, adjusting the IV drip in her arm. “She could be contagious. Could be disease.”  
  
Sam shrugs. “I’ll be fine. If Croatoan viruses can’t kill me, not sure this will.”  
  
Dr. Bedham just cocks his head at him, as if remembering what a specimen he is. Sometimes he expects the doctor to just forgo all common courtesy and prod him with a stick. Maybe Dean’s potential ire is the only think that keeps that away. The doc just leaves them be with the reminder that he shouldn’t get too attached; as if she’s a cat or a dog or something. Sam knows the guy means while, isn’t as awful as he sounds because he’s just seen too much like Dean has — but this kid, she’s not an animal. She’s a person. Someone who’s got very little chance to make it through the next few weeks.  
  
But she could, though. She could.  
  
Sam takes up watching out for her the way he does his gardens, abandoning them to Castiel, much to the ex-angel’s disdain; he’s not much of a gardener, telling Sam that he would have preferred Joshua the angel over him — but Sam just shakes his head with a smile and reminds him that Castiel is the only angel Sam can depend on. Sam takes up feeding the quiet girl some apple sauce when she’s strong enough to even open her mouth and swallow, and he’s quick to get a basin for her when she can’t keep it all down. Sometimes she doesn’t aim very well, but it’s okay. He’s had chupacabra guts on him before. “That’s a smell you can’t get off you,” he finishes telling her while he’s stirring the lukewarm bowl, setting it aside. The shell-shocked teenager blinks slowly, glancing distantly at him. He talks about wendigos, because he figures it doesn’t matter anymore, keeping secrets.  
  
“Mom…?” she whispers again, and Sam sighs and runs a hand over her forehead again. It’s so hot. She’s boiling in there. Infection, Dr. Bedham told him. She has to fight it herself; it’s bad. Malnutrition makes it worse.  
  
Sam bites his lip, rubbing his neck. “I’m not your mom. I hope your mom doesn’t look like me. I’m not much of a looker.”  
  
A few hours later, the girl says, “What’s a wendigo?”  
  
So Sam explains in detail, getting a few spoonfuls of soup in her. Dean watches sometimes, looking like he feels bad for Sam. What’s there to feel bad for, for him? He’s not the one suffering, right now. Maybe it reminds Dean of something sad. Maybe Dean’s projecting a little. He or Cas nudges at him to leave for a little bit, take a piss, take a shower. Has he really been staying in here that long? He just didn’t want to miss anything, leave her in a bad way. He carried her in there, didn’t he? He’s waiting to see if he has to carry her out, is all. He owes her because she grew up in this world because of him. If she asked for his liver or an eyeball or his heart, he’d rip it out and hand it over. That’s just how life is now. Sam’s lucky like that, he thinks. Could be worse. Could be the dark again.   
  
“I’ll leave a nightlight for you,” he says patiently to the girl. She furrows her brow slowly at him. “To keep the dark away.”  
  
She slouches into her pillow, closing her eyes. “You can’t. Keep it away. Not forever.”  
  
He’s stunned at first, to hear her speak so certainly. So clearly. Like she knows everything. Maybe she does. Maybe Sam’s only just began to understand the world, himself. He’s never sure what he knows.  
  
He crouches down beside her bed like he’s about to start prayer.   
  
“What’s your name? You ever gonna tell me?” he says, rubbing her hand gently with his thumb.   
  
Her lips work for a moment. Her eyes look like bruised spots on fruit, sinking and darkening. A tear jaggedly rolls into her ear.  
  
“Sam,” she whispers, drifting off again, and shaking her lightly doesn’t change the answer. She passes away in the middle of the night, while Sam reads a book beside her. He’s damaged enough that he lets himself cry a little for her, as he considers how to take care of what’s left behind. A sheet is good for wrapping bodies; he wraps her safely, considering if they should burn her. Ghosts are always in pain. But he thinks maybe a burial is okay, just for now, just today. And he’ll carry her there, because life is a cycle, and this is how his life spirals, an infinite fate. As he carries the skeleton to their graveyard with his brother close enough to touch shoulders (fitting), he’s still not sure if she told him her name, or just his own. 


End file.
